


the heart, also the cemetery

by cathly



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Introspection, Just My Regular Tags, Nostalgia, Sansa's POV, a companion piece to episode 08x02, i guess i just needed some closure before hbo murders me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 14:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18625309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathly/pseuds/cathly
Summary: The soles of her shoes click against the familiar floors. Her chin is raised high. She inhales. Exhales. Turns another corner and is still, miraculously, home.*(Or: Sansa Stark and her ghosts, before the battle of Winterfell.)





	the heart, also the cemetery

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a poem by Paula Bohince. The whole story is inspired by "Jenny of Oldstones" as performed by Florence and the Machine. English is not my first language. If you'd like, come visit me at my personal [tumblr hell com.](https://cathly.tumblr.com/)

 *

the ones who'd been gone for so very long   
she couldn't remember their names  
they spun her around on the damp old stone  
spun away all her sorrow and pain 

 

*

 

 

With her eyes closed, Sansa is hardly ever home.

She is in King’s Landing, looking up at the canopy above her bed as a gust of wind catches in the net of the curtains and sends sunlight scattering around her like broken glass. She is in a room with locked windows and locked doors. She is in the woods, threading through dirty snow.

But even when her mind forgets, her body remembers. It remembers the warmth seeping through the walls with first glimpses of sunlight. It remembers the smell of fresh snow. It remembers the brush of fur against her skin. It remembers belonging, like the old trees belong in the godswood, like the polished stones belong in the polished walls. It remembers being safe and being whole.

Her body remembers, and so it reminds her to open her eyes.

She is home. There is clean water waiting for her on the nightstand. There is sunlight filtering through the cracks in the shutters and as she throws the shutters open, it fills the room to the brim. Her gown is warm and coarse against her skin, tidy and clean. It reminds her neither of the southern silks nor of dirty snow.

The soles of her shoes click against the familiar floors. Her chin is raised high. She inhales. Exhales. Turns another corner and is still, miraculously, home.

She finds Arya in her room, the door open. Arya is sitting by the dressing table, a familiarly indifferent expression on her face, deft fingers combing through her hair in a way that’s more familiar still.  

“You wear your hair like Father used to,” Sansa says softly, meeting Arya’s gaze in the mirror.

As she watches, a wave of tension ripples through Arya’s body, from her hands to her shoulders and her back, and then it ripples away. Arya drops her hands to her sides and is on her feet in one fluid motion, silent and graceful like a flicker of a flame.

“It’s practical,” she says evenly, her expression all smoothed out like the surface of a lake on a windless day, with terrible things lurking underneath.

“It’s lovely,” Sansa says, folding her hands behind her back, mirroring Arya’s stance. Shoulders squared, chin up. Play-pretend at being calm and being brave. “I like it.”

Another non-expression passes through Arya’s face. “I like your gown,” she says. “It’s practical, too.”

A smile tugs at Sansa’s lips. “Unlike my haircut.”

“Unlike your haircut,” Arya agrees, and this time she does smile. It’s uncertain, as if her muscles no longer stretch the right way, but it’s better than the usual blankness.

“Maybe I’ll let you cut it off, come spring,” Sansa says, smiling back. Her muscles no longer stretch the right way, either, but perhaps with time, they can learn again. 

Arya snorts a laugh. “ _Please_ ,” she says. “Lady Mother would turn over in her grave.”

Her mouth clicks shut. There is no grave, of course. There never was a body to burn and no ashes to bury. There is only empty space by their Father’s bones and a name carved deep into cold stone.

“I should go,” Arya says abruptly. She turns on her heel, throws her cloak around her shoulders and fastens it with one hand, picking up her sword with another. “As should you.”

“Of course,” Sansa says, trying for gracious, but it comes out flat. She wants to mend this conversation, wants to see that cautious smile again, but there’s a chasm between her and Arya that she doesn’t know how to cross. “Can I walk with you?”

“I wouldn’t want to keep you,” Arya replies, aloof again.

“Of course,” Sansa says again. Seconds later, Arya is gone, the echo of her footsteps cut off the moment she no longer wishes to be heard.

 

*

 

She doesn’t expect to find anyone up on the walls, at least not anyone other than the guards. They no longer stand to attention when she approaches, adhering to her request, but they still offer respectful nods. She nods back, trying for an encouraging smile whenever she notices uncertainty or fear.

She doesn’t expect to find anyone other than that, but she does – one of Daenerys’ advisors. Missandei of Naath.

She is looking towards the horizon and she doesn’t notice Sansa at first, but the moment she does, she offers a bow. “Lady Stark,” she says, already turning to leave.

“Stay, please,” Sansa says.

Missandei hesitates. Sansa pretends not to notice, splaying her hands on top of the walls and looking north, towards the horizon and the threat lurking just out of sight.

“Where are you from, Missandei?” she asks lightly, despite knowing the answer already. By her side, Missandei relaxes marginally, though she still weighs her words carefully.

“Naath, my Lady,” she says. “It’s –”

“An island in the Summer Sea,” Sansa says. “I know.”

“Have you heard of it, my Lady?” Missandei asks, a glimpse of emotion flickering through her face. Everyone looks the same when they think of home.

“Yes,” Sansa replies. “The island of the Peaceful People. Famous for its silk.” She pauses. “I hear it’s quite beautiful.”

“It is,” Missandei says quietly.

“You miss it,” Sansa observes, looking at her in consideration. “You are very far from home, Missandei.”

“I have a duty to my Queen,” Missandei says plainly, though her expression is closing off again.

“I know,” Sansa says. She doesn’t say anything else; she doesn’t need to.

“You believe her to be a conqueror,” Missandei says after a moment, just as Sansa expected her to. “She is not.”

“Is she not?” Sansa says with practiced indifference. “She came here to conquer. To take back the Iron Throne, regardless of the costs. Is that not a conquest?”

“She is the rightful heir to the Throne,” Missandei says.

“The rightful heir,” Sansa repeats. “Her father nearly burned the Seven Kingdoms to the ground. Is there no end to one’s right?”

“She’s not her father,” Missandei says. “She is good. Kind.”

Sansa glances to her. “Perhaps,” she allows. “But I have a duty to my people. I cannot feed her army.”

“My Lady,” Missandei says quietly, “most of the army will not survive the night.”

“True,” Sansa says. Another gust of wind comes from the north, chilling her to the bone. She looks at Missandei again. “The commander of the army,” she says measuredly. “He is your lover.”

Missandei startles. “My Lady, I –”

“I apologize,” Sansa says smoothly. “That is none of my concern.”

“No, my Lady, I –,” Missandei pauses and gathers herself. “He is.”

“I will keep him in my prayers,” Sansa says. She no longer prays, of course, but the words don’t feel like a lie as they roll off her tongue. “I hope he returns safely to you.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” Missandei says softly.

Sansa nods at her, turns around to leave, and just as she expects it, Missandei speaks up again.

“She doesn’t understand you,” she says. “My Queen. Daenerys. She doesn’t understand you, Lady Stark. So far she has met people who grew to either love her or fear her. You, my Lady, seem disinclined to do either.”

“This is my home,” Sansa says, without turning around, letting some of her resolve bleed over into her voice. “My Father was the Warden of the North. My Mother was the Lady of Winterfell. My brother was the King in the North. My duty is to them. To the North itself. To no one else.” She pauses. “Your Queen cannot frighten me.”

“I believe, my Lady,” Missandei says carefully, “that fear is not the route she’d prefer to take.”

Sansa smiles slightly. “I know very little about love, Missandei,” she says, looking up at the blue, blue sky. “And I know even less about trust. I do, however, know about respect. Perhaps your Queen can earn mine.” She shrugs. “Or perhaps I can earn hers.”

She doesn’t say anything else, merely smooths down her gown and walks away, Missandei’s gaze still trained firmly on her back. She is taken aback, Sansa can tell, and that will have to do. Her loyalty is with Daenerys and with Daenerys it will stay, but Sansa doesn’t need it. She merely needs the right words to be spoken at the right time, when her own might not be enough to sway Daenerys’ mind.

 

*

 

She finds Arya training with Brienne in the courtyard. It’s quite a spectacle; Brienne is a formidable warrior, but Arya is quick on her feet, dodging every strike with languid ease. It reminds Sansa of the way Father would train with Robb, back when Robb couldn’t even properly hold a sword and so spent most of his time jumping back or rolling away. Except, of course, Father and Robb were often laughing, and there was Mother, too, watching them with a fond smile.

Both Arya and Brienne pause as Sansa approaches. Brienne offers a bow while Arya offers a roll of her eyes.

“My Lady,” Brienne says, “may I have a moment of your time?”

“Of course,” Sansa says, turning to Arya and finding her already gone. “Does something trouble you?”

Brienne hesitates. “I have a request, my Lady.”

“Anything,” Sansa replies instantly and finds that she means it, too. “Anything at all, Brienne.”

Brienne pauses again, but after a moment she unfastens a dagger from her side, presenting it to Sansa.

“I had it forged for you, my Lady,” she says. “It’s dragonglass. The handle should fit you well.”

Sansa frowns. “I have no use for a dagger, Brienne,” she says, not unkind. “I’m not a warrior. I wouldn’t know how to use it.”

“My Lady,” Brienne says, “in hand to hand combat, a blade can be a difference between life and death.”

Sansa smiles faintly. “If it comes to hand to hand combat, Brienne, my fate will have already been sealed.”

“My Lady,” Brienne says. “Please, grant me this courtesy.”

“Very well,” Sansa says, sighing. She takes the dagger. “Like this?”

Brienne bites her lip. “May I?” she asks, her hand hovering over Sansa’s.

Sansa nods, letting Brienne adjust her hold on the dagger and then lead her hand through the air in a cut and a strike. Sansa has no illusions about her ability to defend herself, but the dagger is light in her hand and the blade is sharp. She clasps it to the belt of her dress, underneath her cloak.

“Thank you,” she says. “I promise to carry it with me. And to use it, should the need arise.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” Brienne says, bowing again. “I will fight with a lighter heart.”

Sansa nods at her, offering a smile and a dismissal.

When she looks around, Arya is back in the courtyard again, overseeing the works by the forge.

This part of the courtyard is crowded. There is still much to do and little time left. The last wagons with dragonglass are being unloaded, the dragonglass itself carried over to the forge. It’s not nearly enough, of course. Sansa has always known it won’t nearly be enough.

But it will have to do.

“You,” she says to one of the older men, swaying on his feet as he carries a bucket of water over to the forge, “rest for a moment.”

“My Lady –”

“Rest,” Sansa repeats, no longer a suggestion. “You,” she says to a group of children playing in the snow, “help carry the water to the forge. Take turns when you tire.”

They rush to their feet, as she has expected them to, eyes wide at being addressed directly. The old man nods, swallows, and walks away, shoulders hunched, feet dragging, all wounded pride. This will not earn her his respect.

“Thank you, my Lady,” a familiar voice says. “He wouldn’t listen to me.”

It’s Arya’s friend. Gendry Waters. He doesn’t wait for a response, merely bows quickly and returns to his work, easily commanding the people around him and doing his fair share of work at the same time. Arya watches him while pretending not to watch him at all until he disappears in the forge.

“He is quite handsome,” Sansa comments lightly, enjoying the way Arya’s expression loses its blankness for a moment.

“Is he,” Arya says, feigning indifference so inaptly that Sansa has to duck her head to hide her smile.

“Seems quite capable, too,” she adds as they make their way past the wagons and towards the walls.

Arya huffs. “Are you giving me a  _blessing_?” she demands.

Sansa hums. “Would you like one?”

Arya rolls her eyes, shoving her hands into the pockets of her cloak, a mighty frown on her face. This particular expression Sansa is all too familiar with.

“Would you even give me one?” Arya asks, an edge of bitterness to her tone. Sansa recognizes that, too.

“Yes,” she replies.

Arya looks to her sharply. Sansa doesn’t blame her. Once upon a time, she would  _laugh_. The laughter would be tinged with cruelty. Once upon a time, she would tell Arya about family and about honor, about bloodlines and history and ancestry. She would tell Arya about childish dreams. But now she knows, with clarity as sharp as sunlight reflected in fresh snow, that it’s bloodlines and ancestry and honor that are childish dreams, that there is only kindness and unkindness and neither has anything to do with sigils and names.   

“Why?” Arya asks evenly.

“Because I can,” Sansa replies simply.

Arya’s step falters, but she recovers quickly. “Well, I don’t need your blessing either way,” she says, still frowning.

“Of course not,” Sansa says, smiling up at the sky.

“I don’t!” Arya insists, shoving Sansa lightly, and another smile pulls at Sansa’s lips. A gust of wind runs through her hair, bringing a smell of frost and snow, and for a moment it’s easy to forget the desperation hanging heavy in the air. For a moment it’s easy to remember running around the courtyard, with snowflakes dancing in the wind, holding up her gown to avoid slipping on fresh ice and chasing after Arya with frost still melting in her hair.

Sansa smiles at the memory, the old ache in her chest sharpening for a moment just to fade away again.  

She presses her shoulder against Arya’s. Arya presses back.

 

*

 

The crypts are quiet, flames and shadows dancing in half-dark, casting shades over the statue of their Father and over the letters spelling out Rickon’s name.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever thanked you,” Jon says into the silence, stepping to Sansa’s side, his gaze trained on Rickon’s grave as well. They’ve spent many, many hours here. It’s familiar now, breathing together, listening to the whispers of the wind in the hallways. “You saved us that day. All of us.”

“The knights of the Vale saved you,” Sansa says distantly. One of the candles bled over onto the stone. Sansa scrapes the wax away and smooths her fingers over the surface of the grave. She feels safe here. Here, too, she belongs.

“The knights of the Vale followed  _you_ ,” Jon points out, watching her carefully from the corner of his eye. It’s a precarious position they are in, Sansa is well aware. But whatever game she is playing at any given moment, her family is never on the opposite side. She will not challenge Jon unless he leaves her no choice and Sansa has learned by now that there always is a choice if only one is clever enough to see all paths.

“They followed Littlefinger,” Sansa says evenly. “Lord Protector of the Vale.”

“No, Sansa,” Jon says gently. “They followed  _you_.”

Sansa doesn’t reply. She looks away from Rickon’s grave. “Do you believe we can survive this war?” she asks, less out of fear and more out of curiosity. Jon carries himself like their Father used to, commanding trust and respect, but Sansa knows by now that behind every armor is just a man.

“I don’t know,” Jon says honestly. “Then again, the odds were never in our favor, and yet here we stand.”

“Here we  _kneel_ ,” Sansa says mildly.

Jon sighs, his shoulders sagging. “I’ve asked you to trust me,” he says. “Please, don’t doubt me now.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Sansa says, allowing herself a small smile, “I doubt you less than I doubt most.”

 Jon smiles back faintly. “Well, it will have to do.”

He looks tired. Unsettled. Still, he gathers himself when he catches her looking, and so she doesn’t ask. It’s a courtesy they offer each other when either of them falters; Jon doesn’t ask when Sansa holds herself a little more rigid, flinching away from any threat of touch, and Sansa doesn’t ask when Jon forgets for a moment to be nothing but brave.

“I should go,” she says. “Bran will be waiting for me.”

“I’ll join you in a moment,” Jon says quietly, his gaze trained on the statue of their father. “And Sansa?”

“Yes?” she asks.

“You did well here,” he says. “You’ve earned their respect. Not an easy feat.”

“It wasn’t,” Sansa agrees. “But so did you.”

Here, where nobody’s watching, Jon’s shoulders are hunched and the lines on his face run just a touch deeper. Sansa no longer remembers how he looked without them, just like she no longer remembers Arya’s childish laughter, just like she no longer remembers the words of her favorite songs.

“And Jon?” she adds, having already turned away, forcing herself to stand straight again. “Our Father? He would be proud of you.”

 

*

 

“Hello, Sansa,” Bran says.

Perhaps he recognizes her footsteps. Perhaps he recognizes her smell. Or perhaps he simply  _knows_ , even with his eyes trained firmly on the horizon, even with the last preparations for the battle filling the night with sounds.

He is dressed simply and covered with furs, his hands folded in his lap. His shoulders are relaxed and his expression is distant and peaceful.

Sansa stands at his side and looks down. The Unsullied are all in a battle formation now. They are holding torches, dark fumes rising towards the cloudless sky. Sansa can taste the acrid smoke in the back of her throat.

“They would be proud of you, too,” Bran says.

His voice, as always, is calm and indifferent. Sansa tightens her hold on the handles of the wheelchair and then forcibly relaxes again. Her manners are her armor, far thicker than steel. It’s a simple compliment and should be accepted as such.

“Thank you,” she says graciously, forcing all questions and doubts out of her mind. They are all dead. She will never know and she will have to live with not knowing. She has lived with not knowing for a long, long time.

Bran doesn’t look away from the horizon. “She was also afraid,” he says.

Sansa frowns at the non-sequitur. “She?”

Bran nods. “Yes,” he says. “With her auburn hair dancing in the wind and with her horse dancing on damp stone, with you in her arms and with your skin not yet turned to steel, she was terrified.”

A breath catches in Sansa’s throat. Bran pays her no mind.

“As was he, as he gave up his safety for honor and then gave up honor to keep you safe,” he says. “He, too, was afraid.”

His eyes are still trained on the horizon, but Sansa knows by now that it’s not the horizon they are seeing.

“They were both afraid,” Bran says, “and so they could both be brave.”

Sansa bites her lip so hard she can taste blood. “I, I was never –”

“You were,” Bran says, not a placation but a statement of fact. “You were so very brave.”

Sansa closes her eyes against the sting of the wind.

“Sansa,” Bran says and for a moment – just for a moment – he no longer sounds distant and unfamiliar. He sounds warm. Kind. He sounds like her brother whose laughter still echoes in these walls if you just listen closely enough. “I promise. They would be proud of you.”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa says, the words ripping out of her throat like a sob. For a moment, the ache in her chest is unbearable. For a moment, she doesn’t know if she’ll ever breathe past it again. “Bran, I’m so,  _so_  sorry.”

“I’m alright now,” her brother says gently. “I’m alright now, Sansa.”

He looks at her, just for a moment longer, his eyes warm and familiar and kind. He looks at her until the wound in her chest scabs over, until Sansa can once again breathe in and breathe out without bleeding out.

Then, with eyes still trained on her but no longer looking at her at all, he says, “It’s time.”

 

*

 

It’s quiet in the godswood, frozen leaves trembling in the wind. The wheels of the wheelchair cut through the snow, leaving even traces behind until they reach their destination, until there’s nowhere else to go. Sansa forces her hands to unclench from their hold on the handles.

“Be safe,” she says and steps forward one last time to press a kiss to the top of Bran’s head. “I will see you soon.”

He looks at her, but his eyes are once again distant and unfocused, and he doesn’t offer a reply. Perhaps that in itself is a kindness on his part. She allows herself to watch him for a moment longer, but all traces of warmth are gone, all familiarity washed away. It’s not her brother sitting before her. She loves him all the same.

Theon is waiting nearby, a longbow in his hand, a quiver slung over his shoulder. It’s packed with arrows. It won’t, of course, be enough. Sansa has always known it wouldn’t be enough.

But it will have to do.

“Lady Sansa,” Theon says, glancing up at her and immediately dropping his gaze. Sansa wishes they could go back to the courtyard, sit with their people again, eat and drink and warm their hands by the fire. They cannot, of course. It’s already but an old dream.

His hands are steady where they are resting on the bow and unsteady where they are not. She helps steady them herself.

“Keep him safe,” she asks. Theon nods right away, his shoulders straightening, his expression clearing.

“I will,” he says, meeting her gaze again. His eyes are a troubled sea. “Whatever comes, I will.”

“And don’t die here,” Sansa adds, just as evenly. At that, Theon falters.

“My Lady…”

“No,” Sansa says calmly. Her hands, resting over Theon’s, tighten their hold. “Keep him safe. And then come back home.”

“Home,” Theon repeats. The word is tinged with both a question and a note of disbelief. His gaze flickers to hers, uncertain.

“Of course,” Sansa says softly. “If you’ll have it.”

When she lets go of his hands, they remain steady and still.

 

*

 

Snow is falling, covering the path behind her and the path before her, but Sansa knows every tree and every stone in these woods, and their shadows cannot frighten her.

As she walks towards the walls and towards the battle they can neither win nor escape, she pretends Lady is running by her side, chasing after rodents and birds, white fur shining silver like fresh snow. She pretends Mother is waiting for her on the walls, a warm smile playing on her lips, warmer hands waiting to wrap her in a tight embrace. She pretends she can hear Robb practicing in the courtyard with Father, steel clashing and laughter mingling. She pretends Rickon is with them, too, clapping and squealing and cheering them on. When she closes her eyes, between one blink and the next, it’s summer again and her story is yet to begin. When she closes her eyes, all of her ghosts are beside her, solid and warm.

Arya is waiting for her by the steps leading up the walls, her hands folded behind her back. Her expression is clear again like the surface of a lake on a windless day, but this time Sansa can glimpse what’s underneath. For the most part, it’s her own reflection.

Somewhere in the distance, wolves are howling. Somewhere close by, a battle is about to begin.

Arya offers her a hand. Her hold is familiar and warm.

Both with her eyes open and with her eyes closed, Sansa is not alone.

 

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥ 


End file.
